


Miles Away, Inches Apart

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Great Hiatus, Homesickness, Imaginary John, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Moriarty's Web, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock Misses John, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's capture, Sherlock-centric, before Mycroft intervenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For 32 years of his life, he’d been indifferent and bored. Reckless, and cavalier; bordering on suicidal. But something has changed and he doesn't need to risk his life to prove he's clever anymore.</p><p>Because standing on that rooftop, he’d realised that he finally had something to live for. Someone. So of course he ended up dying for him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles Away, Inches Apart

 

 

He was _so close._

  
So damn close to making it home, against all the odds, even against all his own private predictions (dead in 8 months, tops). He’d nearly made it back to John, had been so close to the finish line he could almost taste London in the back of his throat.

  
It is because of this impending reunion, that he had dangerously allowed the seeds of hope to cultivate and lay down roots. Now having that ripped away may well be the thing that kills him.

_  
“But I finally wanted to live.”_

  
He thinks feebly, as they drag him away backwards into the holding cell, heels scraping painfully across the floor as his head hangs; semi-conscious.

  
For 32 years of his life, he’d been indifferent and bored. Reckless, and cavalier; bordering on suicidal. But something has changed; he doesn't _need_ to risk his life to prove he's clever anymore.

  
Because standing on that rooftop, he’d realised that he finally had something to live for. _Someone_.

  
So of course he ended up dying for him instead.

  
He'd been ready to live, not only that; for the first time in his life he _wanted_ to. Sherlock wanted to enjoy simply being _alive_ , and having someone to share it with.

  
Only now he's not going to get the chance.

  
It's not fair, but life very rarely is.

  
He’d lost a great deal of his self-control very early on, when he broke his cardinal rule; don’t think about London, don’t think about home, and definitely, at all costs, do not think about John Watson. Which was fairly hard to do when you have to remind yourself what it’s all for, why it’s worth every second.

  
But he’d been doing well, until one lonely night in Southern Sweden where he’d caved, and even though he knew it was impossible to go back, he’d longed for home, head swimming full of images; crime scenes, taxi rides, John, _John_ , _**John**_ **.**

 **  
** After that it had been John keeping _him_ alive, his voice in Sherlock’s ears, his instincts thrumming through Sherlock’s bloodstream, his essence in the back of Sherlock’s skull, reminding him to eat, keeping him grounded, pointing out all the little things he thought he’d missed.

  
He knew that it wasn’t John; it’s just his subconscious trying to achieve the impossible and keep his heart beating. When he was dangling from his fingertips, his mind demanded that he scale the cliff-face.

  
Yet, still knowing that it was a trick, when John told him to get up; he stumbled to his feet, and when John said they had to run; he did so, even on a broken ankle. It was quite clever really, using John to motivate him, for everyone knew that Sherlock couldn’t say no to John. But then he _would_ think so wouldn’t he? It was his own damn plan.

  
The illusion of having John by his side did its job, helping to remind him that there was someone waiting for him at the end of the road, a reason to hold on for, that there was a point to what he was doing, and perhaps even a future to look forward to when all of this was over. John’s presence gave him the sense that he wasn’t quite so alone and that made all the difference.

  
He wonders now if he’ll ever see anything outside these cramped walls again, he watches freedom get farther and farther away, before the heavy metal door slams shut and he’s trapped. He’s lost all control, and he’s helpless, has to fight the panic down, because as long as he stays calm, there’s the sliver of a chance that he can find a way out of this.

  
Mycroft had always said that the worst thing you could do to Sherlock Holmes wasn’t to kill him; it was to lock him up and throw away the key, to leave him alone with nothing but his own mind. Then all one had to do was give it a few days, stand back, and watch as it all came tumbling down.

  
John was inches away from his desperate reach and he’d dared to want more than this, to want more for himself; to acknowledge the possibility of returning to a better life. He’d let himself believe for the first time that he was going home.

  
He’s no longer ready to die, not when he can see the promise of something else.

  
He’d been primed and ready to embrace it for a full two years, the end could have come at any moment, death waiting to jump out and snatch him from around every corner.

  
It was only logical to see the inevitability of his demise, the work he was doing, the game he played, his odds dwindling. It was there, plain as day, all he had to do was open his eyes to see it. It would have been stupid to deny it, reckless not to be prepared. He’d known what he was getting himself into.

  
He wouldn’t have blinked if you’d told him he were to die a year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered how it came about either, he could have been mauled by a tiger for all the difference it would have made.

  
Even a month ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, he didn’t want to die exactly, except in some of his darker moments when he indulged enough to mourn what he has lost, but he would have been okay with it. Hell, a few weeks ago he might have walked willing into his open grave, worn down and resigned from the deep ache in his bones.

  
It certainly wasn’t okay now.

  
It was downright cruel, to have been allowed to come this close.

  
He was going to be tortured, degraded, and broken down, until he ceased to be the man he was. He was going to die horribly in this cell, caged, disfigured, and confined. He would be driven mad, his life extinguished, and he would cease to exist from the universe.

  
And John would never know.

  
If he dies here, his death wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference to John. John will continue on, oblivious to Sherlock’s loss, hoovering, dating, and going to Tesco’s like nothing has changed. He will peruse the milk isle and never know the things Sherlock had done and seen for him. He will stand in line for coffee every morning and never know that Sherlock Holmes died not in a blaze of glory or with some dramatic performance; but frightened and alone in some hostile foreign land.

  
Sherlock had instructed Mycroft that John was not to know when he died, there was no sense in forcing him to grieve twice, he can just _imagine_ how well that conversation would go; _‘Oh yes, by the way, you know that friend who killed himself and took half of you with him? He isn’t dead. Well he is_ now _, but he wasn’t until this morning, pip pip.’_

  
But Sherlock could no longer say definitively that he believes it’s for the best that John never finds out. It doesn’t _feel_ like a good thing, it felt like a fucking _tragedy_ , the universe having a laugh at his expense.

  
It seemed wrong to him that John wouldn’t somehow feel it when Sherlock faded from the world; that he wouldn’t wake up one morning and just _know_. How could Sherlock’s death have no significant impact on John’s life whatsoever, how could that ever be possible? It scares him.

  
The fact that Sherlock’s existence has not had any influence upon John on some higher level upsets him, and it doesn’t seem right. He feels that he has been inadequate. Sherlock hasn’t left enough of a mark, they haven’t become sufficiently attuned to one another that they could pinpoint the moment that bond dies, to feel bereft and be able to recognise and mourn the loss for what it is no matter the distance.

  
Rationally he knows that it’s not the case and it could never be, but he can’t help but think that something would tell him that John was no longer there, if their places were reversed. He’s certain that in his heart he’d notice something shift, the hairs on the back of his neck would stand on end, or his blood would run cold, a sign; anything.

  
He would surely feel the grief of John’s demise hundreds of miles away, wouldn’t he? But will John? Will anyone even acknowledge the event? Or will Sherlock’s death be pointless and forgotten? Will it go unmarked in the eyes of the world, of those he cares about? Nothing important happened here today.

  
It’s roughly 1160 miles between where John is, home and safe in London and where he is now, chained to a wall in a decommissioned military base along the disputed Kosovo border. But two hours ago he’d thought that just maybe, it may only be a matter of days before he saw John Watson again.

  
The idea of John had been right in front of him; he could have reached out and brushed the back of his fingers along the other man’s cheek, and almost touched him. But now it’s like the map is zooming back in again, he can see how far the distance _actually_ is compared to how his deluded mind wants to see it, and the rift between them widens exponentially. John is slipping away now, the thread between them becoming perilously strained, and when it is cut, no one will notice.

  
It doesn’t scare Sherlock to know that there might be nothing after death. But it _terrifies him_ to think that John will never know.

  
He closes his eyes and blacks everything out as the first blows begin to land, the pain will draw him out eventually, given enough time. But now in his mind John sits before him in his old chair with the broken spring, eyes glittering with fond sentiments. His smile is soft, and the rays from the setting sun are streaming through the window, winding through each layer of his hair, making the different tones and highlights more striking in their prominence.

  
One fingertip traces the outline of his jaw, and it is almost real, he can almost lose himself in this fantasy with that one innocent touch.

  
But not completely.

  
He hates the way John’s smile falters, the way the light dims in his eyes, and the picture loses clarity with every wound inflicted.

  
He can conjure up flawless images of John in his mind, recreate him in hundreds of different scenarios, but they’ll never be John. He can keep him close, but it’s only the illusion of proximity and in the end, it only serves to make him feel that more distant.

  
Regardless of the fact that John is with him, they have, in actual fact; never been further apart.

 

They’re simultaneously miles away, and inches apart.

 


End file.
